


Malignant

by The_Female_Gaymer



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Nothing but angst, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s), Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:38:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7277548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Female_Gaymer/pseuds/The_Female_Gaymer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn’t believe it.</p><p>He couldn’t believe what the doctor was telling him. He couldn’t believe what was on the diagnosis sheet clutched weakly in his sweating hand. It wasn’t supposed to happen to him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. <i>It wasn’t supposed to happen to him. </i></p><p>Edits and update will be made when they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malignant

**Author's Note:**

> Not that long ago, I finished a personal play-through of _That Dragon, Cancer_ , which somewhat inspired me to write this.
> 
> It's sad. It made me cry.
> 
> And it got me thinking.

He couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t believe what the doctor was telling him. He couldn’t believe what was on the diagnosis sheet clutched weakly in his sweating hand. It wasn’t supposed to happen to him. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen to _him_. There was no history of it in his family. Not that he was aware of. It couldn’t be. He held a hand to his mouth, muffling his shaking breaths and blinking back the tears in his eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be this bad. Christ. He had to read it multiple times to fully understand what the hell he was looking at. He had to ask the doctor to repeat himself multiple times just so he could grasp at what was happening to him. Christ. Fuck, fucking Christ.

He took a shuddering breath, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He reasoned with himself. It could be worse. He could have HIV. AIDS. Something he was, honestly, very lucky he hadn’t contracted in the first place, before this. It seemed as though his luck had finally run out, and he’d been hit. Hard.

He didn’t think it’d meant anything. The backaches, the headaches, the depression, the confusion. That was stuff that happened to him all the time. He hadn’t thought anything of it. Not until the seizures kicked in. It’d started harmless enough; he would be in the middle of something, then he’d wake up on the floor with no recollection of what had happened to him. That wasn’t unusual. The frequency of them, however, was. He didn’t think anything of it, until someone had walked in on him having an episode. Then his friends had firmly insisted that he go and see a doctor. And, in just two visits, they’d figured him out-- one for the cell samples, and this one for the diagnosis. And he stared with watering eyes, in deep disbelief.

He couldn’t believe it.

And it would have meant nothing, too. If it weren’t for how far his condition had progressed. If it weren’t for how few treatment options were left to him. If it weren’t for how slim-- nearly non-existent-- his chances were of survival. If it weren’t for how little time they estimated he had left. If it weren’t for the serious look in the doc’s eyes. Then, they told him how long he had to live. It was all he could do not to fall apart right then and there.

One year.

One measly year, with treatments. Less, if he was really unlucky. Without treatment? Months. Weeks. Indeterminable.

He stumbled out of the examination room into the nearest empty chair, and sat there for a few minutes with an empty, blank, hopeless look.

He wondered who he should tell first. Probably the first person that showed up in his call history. Why not? What would he have left to lose?

He opened up the phone app, head resting in his left hand.

Michael.

He shook his head. This was going to be a disaster.

Still, he sucked up his tears and his distress, and pushed “Call.”

The phone rang three and a half times, before he picked up.

“Hey, T,” he said. He sounded out of breath.

“Michael,” he said right back, and he sounded so relieved to hear his voice, and he sat up a little straighter in his seat. “Hey. What, uh, what are you doing? What are you up to?”

Michael chuckled. “I’m just biking around Vespucci Beach. It’s a pretty great day. Good weather, great sun. You still holed up in Blaine County? When are you coming down again? You should stop by, man, we’ll get a drink, catch up.”

“Yeah. That sounds like a good idea. Like a lot of fun. But, uh, nah, I, uh, I’m actually in town. Right now.”

“Oh, hey, really? Well, I ain’t busy right now. You want to hang out?”

Trevor closed his eyes. Maybe it could wait. No one had to know yet, right? Just a few more days of normalcy. Just a few more days of denial, before the treatments started, the medicine started coming in, the care packages, the concerned phone calls from friends and other friends. Just a few more days.

“Sure,” he said, faking a smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve annoyed the shit out of you. I’m glad you agreed it’s high time we fixed that.”

Michael laughed on the other end of the line, and it’d never sounded so pure to Trevor before. Maybe realizing your own morality made life just that much more precious. “Where do you want to meet up?”

“Anywhere’s good,” Trevor stated. “Somewhere with alcohol and boobs.”

“The Vanilla Unicorn then? It’s got both. It’s the best place to go, and you own it, so free drinks.”

Trevor rolled his eyes. Cheapskate. “Sure. We’ll go to my place.” He folded up his diagnosis paper and shoved it in to his shirt pocket. He could worry about that later. He stood up from the chair, and made his way down the brightly lit hospital walls.

“I’ll see you there then.”

 

* * *

 

He always looked so much younger in this light. The lines of his face faded away as the lighting grew dimmer, his green eyes seemed to flash back to life, and if Trevor squinted hard enough, he could make the grey in his hair go away, too. He could almost pretend that they were back in North Yankton. He could almost pretend that twelve years hadn’t passed since then, and they were still young and on the run, with little but what was in their pockets and, if they were lucky, a car to their own name. Despite the fact that there was a stripper’s legs in front of him, all Trevor seemed to be able to focus on was Michael across the way.

His staring did not go unreciprocated.

Michael leaned back in his seat, and threw out another couple dollar bills, but he was barely looking at the woman before him any longer. His eyes were narrowed. They were narrowed, and the smirk on his face was not from contentment or the mere act of disobeying the Bible, but from masked thought. Trevor knew that smirk. Michael didn’t want him to be able to read what he was thinking. So he faked a smile. It was a way of throwing Trevor off of the scent, but that had stopped working long ago.

Trevor grabbed at his drink, downing the remaining substance all in one gulp. Really, that was one of the last things he should be doing-- drinking. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He just wanted to forget, just for one last night, that his life as he knew it was over. He just wanted to pretend that everything was okay. That he wasn’t sick. That he wasn’t _terminally_ sick.

Michael continued to stare. Trevor felt unease rising in his gut. A look that intense meant that Michael was either on to him, or wanted to fuck him. It varied from time to time. Maybe it meant both. And since he’d left Amanda, it happened more frequently. The court battle for the house was still going on, but, with help from Lester, it was looking like Michael was going to win. Amanda would get kicked out, and the kids weren’t a part of the equation, being of age. Tracey was out of state, away at some college, and Jimmy was… well, Jimmy. Fat, lazy, and still unemployed. Michael just stopped caring if they were around or not.

Because he had Trevor.

He scoffed at the thought. ‘ _Not for long_.’

At the other end of the room, Michael stood up, tilting his head from side to side. He gave Trevor a knowing look, before walking behind himself into the back rooms. Most likely, to Trevor’s office. That made Trevor freeze up.

It was a code. He either wanted to talk, or fuck. Trevor stood himself, and made to follow.

Maybe Michael didn’t know after all. Maybe he could keep pretending. He hoped he could keep pretending. God, did he hope.

He brushed past the red curtain, and went into the back room. Sapphire and Juliet were on break, reapplying makeup and sharing whatever gossip they had to share on the regulars. Normally, he’d stop to listen, but he couldn’t keep Michael waiting. He walked past the curtain to the stage, and went straight into the office he called second home.

Michael looked up from his glass, setting it down on the desk behind him. He was propped up against it, like some stupid model, advertising casual suit wear. He would have believed it, too, if he’d only put on a smouldering look. But he wasn’t smirking. His intense look had changed into one of confused concern.

“Are you doin’ okay?” he asked quietly. “You’ve been kinda quiet tonight. Brooding.”

_Shit._

He played it off with a shrug, but where he would have usually had a witty retort, he couldn’t will himself to speak. Michael raised a brow, hands on his hips as he waited for Trevor to say something.

“Why?” Trevor pressed. “Why, what’s wrong with me?”

“I told you. You’re quiet and brooding. Those are the two things that do not bode well for Trevor Philips’ health. So what’s up? Something’s wrong. I’m not dumb.”

There was no reason to dance around the subject. Not when Michael had him figured out so easily. Trevor could lie all he wanted, but Michael was the King of Bullshit. He would figure him out from a mile away, and he knew it. He could avoid the subject, but not forever. So much for a final day of denial; it was impossible now. He was only reminded more of it now that Michael was pressing him for answers. He closed his eyes, throat sticky and thick with reluctance to speak. Somehow, he forced the words out.

“I have cancer.”

There was a surprised-- shocked, even-- intake of breath. “Did you just say..?”

“I have cancer.”

Michael was quiet for a second, before what Trevor was saying to him fully crashed down. He pushed himself off of the computer desk, taking a hesitant step towards Trevor and looking like he’d seen a ghost. He _was_ looking at a ghost, Trevor figured. Michael’s mouth flapped uselessly for a moment, but he found his words again eventually.

“Christ… you’re serious? Cancer?”

“Cancer.” The more he said the word, the less it sounded like a word to him. Semantic satiation, it was called. He experienced it a lot. He could list all the words in his head that he experienced that with: coyote, existence, cocaine, murder, etc. He waited again for Michael to speak to him, and the silence lasted longer this time. Now that he knew he was dying, he was painfully aware of every second that he was losing doing nothing but sitting around.

“Fuck, cancer. You’re sure?” Michael’s eyes were wide.

“I…” Trevor had to swallow down tears again. “I’m sure. I’ve got the papers right here.” He reached into his shirt pocket with a shaking hand, and held it out to Michael without bothering to unfold it. “I was… at Mount Zonah Medical when you called. I just got the results today.”

“Shit.” Michael sounded like he didn’t believe it at all. Trevor still couldn’t believe it. He carefully took the papers from Trevor, unfolding them and reading as he danced in place. The medical jargon was… intense; he didn’t expect Michael to understand most of it, just the necessary bits. And as he read them aloud, Trevor knew that he got the point.

“... Pancreatic cancer… stage three… Brain cancer… stage…  four… benign tumor on the diaphragm, impeding with breathing… four to twelve month life expectancy!?”

Michael shook, and threw down the papers, and swore loudly.

“Fuck!”

Trevor stood by and watched as Michael paced and kicked at the words on the floor, as if he could beat Trevor’s illness by pounding the ink into submission. His eyes drooped with exhaustion, but he could feel the sick lingering dread creeping back up his throat as he remembered his predicament. He was startled when Michael pointed at him.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Trevor looked at Michael blankly, and shrugged. “I wanted to pretend I wasn’t sick. And if I told you, you wouldn’t play along, and if you tried, you wouldn’t play along well. You caught on too quick, M.”

Michael ran frustrated fingers through his hair, and continued to pace and curse under his breath. “Fucking… stage _fucking_ four… Options, options. Treatment options. What do we have?”

“Nothing that would extend my life beyond what’s written there,” the Canadian informed him. “The paper’s the best-case scenario. The worst case scenario is I die tomo--”

“Don’t say that,” Michael snarled, walking right up to Trevor and grasping his arm roughly.

“Don’t say what?” Trevor asked bitterly. “‘Die’?”

“Yes, _that_ ,” Michael barked. “Don’t ever say that. Not now. Get it out of your fucking vocabulary. It’s not a word anymore. Get rid of all the synonyms, too. No fucking ‘perishing’, or ‘passing away’, or, or ‘croak’, or whatever the fuck else you can think of. What are the treatment options?”

“Nothing cheap.”

“You have money.” The older man lead Trevor to the couch, sitting him down and rummaging through his fridge, searching for something to give him to drink. “Whatever cost they throw at you, you can handle it.”

“I don’t want to feel like _shit_ ,” he groused loudly. “I don’t want to have to fucking flush the toilet twice because I’m a walking radioactive plant. What’s the point if I’m going to d--” he had to stop himself. “-- if I’m… not going to see the end of the year anyways?”

“You _will_ make it to New Years,” Michael snapped, poking his head up from the fridge door. “New Years at least. Longer, if we can help it. I ain’t letting you go so easy, T.”

“It’s _June_ ,” Trevor said pointedly.

“Then that makes it easy.” Michael pressed an unopened water bottle in to Trevor’s hands, then came to sit next to him. “Six months. A little over the minimum. Just a little. And we’ll get you the treatment you need so you can get there.”

Trevor looked up from his lap at Michael, frowning. There was no way Michael was taking this so well. There had to be a reason, and he think he damn well knew what it was. “You think I’m going to live, don’t you? You think we’ll get some bullshit Vinewood ending, where those malignant little cells all just go away and we live happily ever after, don’t you?”

Michael held out his arms in defense.

“There’s no harm in hoping.”

“It’ll only make the end so much more painful.” Funny, how such a God-awful situation could make a pessimist out of the optimist, and an optimist out of the pessimist. “All those hopes of yours will crash and burn along with my corpse. Just face the damn facts, Michael. I’m not long for this world. Not anymore. I’m barely forty-seven, and I’m at the end of my rope.”

The older man took Trevor’s head in his hands, forcing him to look him in the eyes.

“I told you not to talk like that,” he exclaimed softly.

The Canadian took Michael’s wrists, sighing as he pried them away from his head and gulping up the desperate look of hope in Michael’s eyes, and the hidden fear and despair he could spot, having known him for so long and so well.

“One year,” Trevor reminded him.

Michael set his lips, and sighed through his nose. “We’re gonna shoot for longer.”

“One year is the absolute deadline, not the goal.”

“We’re gonna fucking try, Trevor. But I can’t push you. You gotta try and hope with me. I can’t hope alone.”

“There is _no_ hope here!” Trevor attempted to get to his feet, but Michael held him down, and the tears started flowing freely down his cheeks. “My time is running out, Michael!”

“You were only diagnosed today, Trevor! Calm down, you’re going to be okay. For now, just breathe, alright? You’re going to make yourself feel worse.”

“Well who the fuck cares, right?” Trevor blubbered. “I’m gonna die anyways, so who the fuck cares how I feel? It won’t mean shit in the end!”

Michael took a deep breath, ready to shout something in panicked frustration, but, after a second thought, he calmed himself, and wrapped his arms around Trevor, and exhaled slowly. Trevor struggled feebly against him, pushing without strength.

“Goddamn it, let me go, Michael!” He wept against him, and his pushing stopped eventually, but he was left with a pounding headache-- a reminder of the little bastard lodged too deep in his brain to get at surgically. When he felt Trevor relax, Michael pushed him to lay down, still holding him in his arms and cradling him against himself. Trevor continued to hiccup quiet sobs, but he said nothing more, lulled into a sense of false calm by Michael’s warmth. The older man pet at his hair, whispering soothing things that Trevor couldn’t comprehend, or refused to listen to.

“Everything’s gonna be fine, T.”

Trevor shook his head.

“No. It’s not.”

Michael forced Trevor’s head close to his, and he kissed him deeply. Trevor could feel him shaking against his lips. Trembling breaths that told just how he truly felt about the situation. Michael pulled away just long enough to whisper, “We’ll make it fine. We won’t let this define our last months together. It’s just a minor inconvenience. This is nothing.”

“Please--” Trevor was going to beg him to stop downplaying the situation, to man up and face the facts, but Michael’s lips were on his again, and, curse his instincts and his need, he played right in to his hands.

 

* * *

 

He woke up in Michael’s bed. He sat up, confused, before last night came rushing back into his mind. To his left, still asleep, was the man himself. The lines of his face were still softened. Trevor wondered if he was losing his eyesight, or if the weight of his life in his hands just made Michael seem so much younger all of a sudden.

Outside, a flash of lighting and the rumble of thunder disrupted Trevor from his thinking. It could barely be seen through the pretty stained glass balcony door, but he saw it. He rubbed his hands down his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, before glancing at the time. It was just past four in the morning.

His back hurt him. His _cancer_ hurt him. He was nauseous. His _cancer_ made him nauseous. There was the phantom feel of pins and needles all down his arms. That was the cancer, too. Now that he knew what it all was, he could feel what was troubling him and know what exactly it was that was hurting him. Cancer. Cancer cancer cancer. The cancer was the reason for the dark circles under his eyes. The cancer was the reason he had lost twenty five pounds in just a few months. The cancer was the reason the right side of his body seemed to tire out so much more quickly than the left. It was all his fucking _cancer_.

Trevor’s throat closed up with more impending tears, but he wouldn’t let them flow. Not now. He slipped out of Michael’s bed, stumbling over to the vanity Amanda used to use before Michael kicked her out. Now, it was empty, and bare, save for a few pictures of Michael’s kids and a lamp. He tugged on the switch for the lamp until it flickered to life, placing his palms flat on the wood, and staring at his haggard reflection. Was his skin more yellow? The doctor told him to look out for that. Right now, he felt alright, but how long until the next seizure? How long until he had to have the fluids drained from his stomach? Then there was the issue of his cognitive health. He’d be practically senile come the end of his life, if it was the brain cancer that killed him. And if it was the Pancreatic cancer...

Trevor’s forearms shook.

“My name--” he swallowed thickly, feeling the sick rising in him, but he pushed it down as he continued to whisper. “My name is Trevor Philips. I’m forty seven years old, and I have terminal cancer. Over… over the course of my life… of the rest of my life… my personality may change. I may not think the same way I did when I was first diagnosed, but I am still the same person, at the end of my life. I am still Trevor. I may get confused. I may forget who I am. But I am still fucking Trevor Philips. This cancer will _not_  change who I am. This cancer will _not_ destroy me.”

He looked over his shoulder at Michael, afraid he was being too loud, but the older man still slept, undisturbed by Trevor’s ranting. Trevor drooped his head, shaking it, and his vision blurred as his tears dripped into the wood beneath him.

“I won’t let it.”

**Author's Note:**

> As it stands right now, this will remain a one-shot. I know I promised to continue it, and I'm sorry, but the inspiration is lacking, and cancer is a draining subject to write. I will work on the next chapters on and off, but I cannot guarantee any updates. I'm sorry.
> 
> Tumblr: the-female-gaymer.tumblr.com


End file.
